


monochromatic daydreams

by oceansinmychest



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/F, Holidays, Kissing, Mistletoe, One Shot, Poetry, Prose Poem, holigays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Beneath the mistletoe, Seven kisses her (and it feels like dying, feels like rebirth, feels like the lives that the Borg have assimilated, manipulated, and claimed as their own).
Relationships: Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	monochromatic daydreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [se7ensecrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/se7ensecrets/gifts).



> Mostly, this piece has been influenced by the wine I've ingested over the past two nights for the 'holiday spirit,' so it goes. However, my intention is to dedicate this little number to a friend of mine whom I've met through the fandom. Captain, it's your birthday; I hope that you celebrate it to the fullest potential despite holiday inference (or perhaps you see the holiday as the ultimate celebration of your year!), Your writing enamors me, your thoughts push me, your flattery enflames me. Thank you, my kind and dear friend. I wish you a peaceful holiday amidst all the poinsettias. <3
> 
> And to those reading on, happy holidays. Please forgive the (perhaps overdone?) trope. Wishing much love and light to y'all. Thanks for reading. x
> 
> Ah, here's the song that allowed me to write this number: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0OrlIUqug8

On this merry eve, Morale Officer Neelix has taken it upon himself to research Terran customs. He swallows his grief over Alixia to put on a show, all bravado, in swallowing the agony of such a loss. Although Mr. Neelix was an acquired taste, Captain Kathryn E. Janeway has grown quite fond of the resident Talaxian. To this stardate, she recalls how the fellow had the audacity to convert her dining quarters into a mess hall. Now, the room benefits the majority of the crew, similar to a revolving door that led to warm food, good conversation, and earnest laughter. Indeed, her beloved crew’s come a long way, both proverbially and physically.

The mess hall, noticeably chrome, now adorns shades of green and red and a touch of Midas gold.

In passing, Janeway notices that Neelix sports an emerald bowtie below his collar which illuminates the shock of his hair furthermore.

Rather than synthethol, Janeway nurses a cup of mulled wine. She tastes the sprig of cinnamon, the lingering effect of cranberries and sliced oranges. The rim kisses her crimson lips. That shiny, chrome mug swallows her nose, her mouth, as she drinks greedily under the pretense of celebration, of the Dionysian joy that flows freely from such holidays.

A maroon turtleneck accentuates the Captain’s slim curves whilst hugging her slender throat, as if offering the invitation of a bloodletting, of a violent red curtain. Charcoal trousers lead to a pair of midnight black kitten heals – a boost of height, a stroke of ego. From across the room, Janeway spies their prodigy. They stalk about one another in this game of polite conversation. So, Janeway indulges Chakotay in anthropological jargon, in ritual, in the deviation from Western nuclear traditions. All the while, she sneaks glances at a blonde that glistens, that sparkles.

_What a fool desire makes of you._

In stark contrast, Seven is a vision in silver, a chromatic beauty. Those Manhattan model legs, shapely, but not overtly stick thin can never be charted by Terran cartography. A jumpsuit, similar yet different to her biosuit, highlights the sleek, narrow body of Seven with all those lethal curves. The legs flare out into bell bottoms. The fabric (raynon, not quite silk: this material gleams too brilliantly) shimmers akin to tinsel illuminated by a tree’s vibrant lights.

Cornsilk blonde tresses are pulled back into a French braid. Without Janeway’s knowledge, Chief Engineer helped her with the style despite their heated exchange, a hiss of words. 

_“Kahless,” B’Elanna muttered under her breath. A tug here, a pull there. She's rough enough to yank her hair out by the roots. “You’re the little sister I never wanted.”_

_“-We share no blood relation,” came Seven’s swift rebuttal._

Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix 01, fearsome Borg that she is, settles for a mug of hot cocoa. Whipped cream lingers above her upper lip. For a split moment of irrationality (she certainly has many of those), Captain Janeway considers licking away the vestiges of sweetness with a kiss. Janeway does not. Rather, she swipes away the residue with her thumb. Presses it to her mouth in a private moment between them where either no one notices or chooses not to notice.

And like magnets, they come apart again. In this tantalizing game, they avoid one another and skirt around the subject with finesse.

Seven comes into contact with her cherished friend.

Naomi Wildman sports a miniature candy cane, in accordance with Terran records of the 21st Century. With a bounce to her step, she encourages for Seven to “enjoy yourself” before linking arms with her mother, Ensign Samantha Wildman. Mother and daughter trot off in anticipation of a man in a red suit and a bushy, grey beard. For the countless lives of her, Seven cannot fathom (or relate to) the unprecedented glee that Naomi feels. No matter the dissonance, Seven wishes her a pleasant evening with a curt nod. The “Merry Christmas” follows thereafter; her clipped tone replaced by what humans refer to as fondness: undefined, only _felt_.

Naomi hugs her and she reciprocates. Links her arms around the small, wiry girl (the girl she could have been sans a maturation chamber, sans her parents’ brilliant arrogance) before letting go, watching them go.

Therefore, people come and go. Bodies trickle out. The Captain, while human, holds on for the sake of holding on. Kathryn Janeway is anything but tenacious. From afar, Seven observes the haggard gait of the Captain: the droop to her shoulders, the glint of an artifact fixated to her chest, the sliver of a grin (so reminiscent to a crescent moon).

Pinned to Kathryn’s breast is a family heirloom, a silver brooch that captures that glaring fluorescent lights looming above their heads. Goldenbird seeks the warmth and familiarity of her childhood amidst the protocol, the stories, the cheer.

After skirting around one another for hours, they make contact. Beneath the branch that teases them – by the exit of the mess hall – Janeway and Seven cross paths. It’s a familiar tale, one painted by tradition and false pretenses.

Caught under the mistletoe, Janeway’s expression softens. There is a glimpse of Kathryn beneath the Captain’s armor. This time, it’s not the copious amounts of wine that flushes Kathryn’s lightly freckled cheeks. Her eyes darken as her pupils dilate.

The scent of pine envelops them.

Craning her neck, Seven of Nine assesses the branch with its vibrant green leaves and rounded berries. With its evergreen scent to compliment the small, rounded berries, the parasitic remembrance is – in all hypocrisy – forgotten to favor the "holiday spirit" the crew pledge themselves to. Emerald embraces ivory perfectly intertwined above the doorway, symbolic of the threshold to liminal places.

Perhaps as a testament to the plant’s toxic properties, the branch looms over their heads, that voyeuristic Sword of Damocles – like fate itself – taunting and haunting all the same.

“Illogical,” she dismisses the societal norm with a rather pretentious scoff, if the Borg can ever administer such.

Tom Paris educated Seven on Christmas tradition with many a black-and-white film on “ye olde boob tube.” The Doctor instructed her on the myriad of ways to cherish the holiday spirit. 

“Is it?” Janeway manages. Lets the question linger between bated breath and cool night air as more bodies, more names she can’t recall (though she tries; hell, she tries). Will curse herself in the late evening in her quarters, lamenting while sprawled across her sofa and staring at the artificial lighting. That fluorescent glow is far crueler than Q, she knows.

Beyond the brink of admiration and yearning and the threshold of desire, Janeway stares longer than necessary. She’s looking God in the Machine head on. Her mouth runs dry. A crying shame she doesn’t have a cup of coffee on hand to ground her. Center her. Let her leave with grace or tact or whatever excuse she can muster. That doesn’t happen. Mystified, she stands there, arms fallen lax by her sides, cup precariously dangling between her poised fingers.

Beneath the mistletoe, Seven kisses her (and it feels like dying, feels like rebirth, feels like the lives that the Borg have assimilated, manipulated, and claimed as their own). Denied a mere peck on the cheek, Seven’s plump lips met her wine-stained ones. She licks away the remainder of Seven’s gloss - that sweet, cherry taste is a far cry from efficiency. 

Her olfactory organs detect a most curious combination of compounds: (chemicals comprised uniquely of the Captain’s scent). Unable to target the genetic compound, Seven curses her circuitry, her hard-wiring. Poetic metaphors ring true: you _can_ taste someone through their heartbeat. 

There’s spice and blood and life and all the equations that addle her mind while regenerating.

So, a monolith of self-believe crumbles under the weight of that sacred kiss. Although Janeway doesn’t possess an eidetic memory, she’ll savor (and covet this moment). The cup falls with a dull, yet reverberant clang. People pretend not to care: the stragglers who wish not to reflect on their ache, their loneliness. Always, Janeway feels for them. Feels too damn much.

 _No one’s looking,_ Kathryn convinces herself despite the inkling of paranoia, the need to cling to command.

Even before she can protest, Seven kisses her again. A light graze of lips, akin to a butterfly’s wings gingerly caressing flower petals. Perhaps Seven chances a risk by allowing her metal-encased fingers to fall upon the Captain’s cool, clammy cheek. Gently, fingertips slither down that proud profile, towards the material of the turtleneck.

There’s no hint of tongue, nothing more licentious in nature, just longing and pining and all that’s unrequited left unsaid.

Their characters stretch into caricatures of themselves: a portrait of whatever Annika and Kathryn could have been. Alas, they are not them. Nor are they Katrin and Mademoiselle de Neuf. They are Captain and Astrometrics Office (Re: Borg); the chain – the red string of fate – broken, unbroken, and reassembled into something new, something foreign.

Finally, Seven relents. Relinquishes her touch by folding her arms behind her back, having resumed her ramrod posture despite the festive attire. For a brief moment in time, she affords the ghost of a smile. A phantom gesture that suits Annika Hansen before the Borg, Annika Hansen had she lived her life either through the throes of Starfleet or beyond.

It makes Kathryn ache. Her heart clenches. Her swollen lips sting. A chill sweeps through her. She lifts her right arm despite the strain of her bicep, as if to embrace Seven after their dalliance. Although her wrist flicks, her hand lingers mid-air before falling short.

Still, Kathryn looks to Seven: always looking, always admiring, always yearning, always denying herself.

The sigh that the Captain emits lasts for approximately seven seconds.

Most unusual.

Curiously, Seven tilts her head. Quirks her brow – the human one, her implant flexes, strains against skin, and reminds her of how mechanical she is. Her stomach churns. Binary code nags. The technical hum says: you are not as human as they demand you to be.

“Seven,” the Captain begins, slow and steady in the name of Aesop’s fables, after swallowing a lump in her throat. “Why don’t you join me in my quarters in twenty minutes?”

Regardless of statistics, regardless of assumptions, Seven neither predicts nor expects this outcome. She parts her swollen, pink lips, now tainted by the cinnamon and wine that the Captain has indulged in. Once, then twice, she blinks to rid herself of the static that veils her forced version.

“I will comply,” Seven answers, dutiful to adhere to Janeway’s beck and call.

Yet, there is something more – something almost desperate that accentuates the former Borg’s tone. It’s inexplicably human: that longing that neither choose to reflect upon.

Seven turns, her face toward the hallway as she prepares to leave the room. She experiences the lukewarm sensation of the Captain’s hand upon her back for approximately three seconds before delving towards her tailbone and leaving her form entirely. Now, her body does as the artists say: she burns and burns and burns again like Ariel, like Joan of Arc, like every anomaly distorted through literature and art alike.

After forcing her body to perform, to act, to comply, Seven moves. She acknowledges the Captain’s stare with a sidelong stare. A Borg-like smile. As an automaton, she will arrive as expected. As a woman, she wishes to unravel the Captain: from the brooch to the turtleneck to the pale skin beneath the layers of fabric and the tenets of command.

Seven catches a glimpse of Janeway caressing her bottom lip with two fingers. Still staring, still observing, still desiring.

These coveted looks are remarkable yet unremarked upon.

Left unsaid, sentenced to the infinitude of the Delta Quadrant.


End file.
